


every little fantasy (you got it with me)

by capmackie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Everyone Loves Sam Wilson, M/M, Stripper!AU, leaf prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-27 17:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20049889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capmackie/pseuds/capmackie
Summary: Stripper!au for Leaf’s Sambucky Prompts - #15





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky doesn’t do *this*, he just doesn’t. He’s not someone who visits strip clubs, he’s not someone who visits them regularly and he *definitely* isn’t someone that has a favorite dancer who only performs on Tuesday, Friday & Saturday at said clubs. No, of course not. 

What would someone like James Buchanan Barnes, known to only a select few as ‘Bucky’, be doing in a place like this? He’s the epitome of ‘having his shit together’, earning his MBA in only five years and landing a job with one of the top accounting firms in the country that pays him more money than most see in a lifetime. People of his caliber don’t go to these kind of places and definitely aren’t regulars. 

The bar in particular is nothing special and if people like him *did* go to these kind of places, they would definitely go to one where the neon sign announcing the name of the club isn’t missing a few letters or to a place where the drinks aren’t served in plastic cups. Just sayin’.

Strip clubs are seedy places, he tells himself, hears other say. This is *not * a place where he can put aside his shit and just relax; can lose himself in the darkest parts of the club and find himself again when Sam shines in the light. 

And *oh* Sam. The Falcon, actually, as he’s known by. Bucky only knows his real name after stalking the club’s Facebook page in a fit of desperation. Sam is something, no, Sam is everything. He’s an intriguing juxtaposition of everything Bucky wants and everything he knows he can’t have. Standing at almost six feet, Sam’s just a inch or two shorter than Bucky but his presence is huge, his aura absolutely captivating. Bucky’s certain even a blind man can see Sam as clear as day. 

And seeing Sam, drinking him in, is a gift. He’s all bright, brown eyes, high cheekbones and big, toothy smiles that show the cutest gap ever. Brown skin, stretched beautifully over well defined muscles and an ass that absolutely doesn’t quit, Sam is a work of art. 

But being *seen* by Sam is a completely different story. Having the dancer’s attention is captivating and honestly, frightening. Bucky’s felt this fear first hand, the first time him and Sam ever made eye contact. It felt like Sam had figured him out, knew what he wanted, knew what he *needed* almost immediately. 

It only took one dance routine, one roll of those hips and Bucky’s heart was captured, enthralled and he’s suddenly no longer angry that his coworkers had practically forced him to come out for a night of debauchery at the local male strip club. 

***  
It takes the eighth visit for Bucky to come to terms that maybe people of his caliber do indeed go to seedy male strip clubs with signs that are missing letters and drinks served in plastic cups. It’s not a big deal, he tells himself. No one here recognizes him or the firm he works for, (the people here probably can’t even tell the difference between a debit or a credit) but he pulls the brim of his hat down a little lower. His Brooklyn upbringing is deeply instilled in him, believing wholly that you can never be too cautious. 

He’s in his favorite seat, a worn recliner with the swell of his ass practically engrained in it from the frequent visits. It’s the best seat in the house; to the left of the stage where the dancers are on full display but he, himself is almost completely hidden. The contrast never fails to send a tingle down his spine, the predatory thrill settling in the pit of his stomach. It’s a Friday night and the club’s crowded, which makes sense, it’s Falcon’s day and no one wants to miss the show. He’s the last performer and the anticipation builds for his set, club patrons rushing to exchange larger bills for neatly banded sets of dollar bills. 

Bucky’s arrived just in time to get pat down, (pretty aggressively if you ask him, the metal arm’s a magnet for trouble) and order a watered down beer before the lights start to dim. It’s the same lineup every Friday and he barely pays attention to the dancers that go out, earn their keep and disappear again behind those red curtains. 

Then the main attraction appears, dressed in nothing but plastic wings and red and white shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Sam, no The Falcon, looks down right filthy and it gives Bucky enough jerking off material to last a lifetime, several lifetimes actually. Sam starts his routine, dancing around the stage, letting the notes of some 90’s R&B song guide him. Midway through, decides the left side of the club deserves his full attention. Bucky leans up in his seat, enjoys the spectacle, enjoys watching Sam move like he’s dancing specifically for Bucky, like they’re the only two in the room. Enjoys how Sam makes him feel so special, seemingly making eye contact every time the dancer looks over, even though Bucky’s in a pretty secluded spot. 

It’s all an act, Bucky reminds himself, has to *constantly* remind himself, lest he falls deeper into this rabbit’s hole of lust and wanting so damn strong, he sometimes thinks it’s actual love. 

Now those thoughts are fucking frightening. More frightening than someone recognizing him at a strip club that can really use a thorough cleaning and a better DJ, more frightening than fucking up an audit for one of his Fortune 500 clients, more frightening than *fuck* just about anything else in the world. Losing himself to the idea of taking this man home, sleeping next to him every night and waking up to him every morning activates his fight or flight instincts and it makes him jittery. Sam is perfect and Bucky, well, Bucky’s not. Hasn’t felt anything remotely close to perfect since he came to terms with his sexuality as a teen and definitely not since the car crash that took his left arm and replaced it with cold, hard metal. So he doesn’t allow himself to think about mundane things like *what’s Sam’s favorite color* or *is Sam a cat or dog person* or *what Sam’s ‘o’ face looks like*. 

That last thought he can work with though, keeps him from toppling over the edge. Lusting after Sam, wanting to absolutely take him apart and see if the inside is just as perfect as the outside, to see if he feels as good as he fucking looks is normal, something he can control. It’s the other shit that keeps him up at night.


	2. someone who can satisfy my every little need (i'm hoping that it's you)

Honestly, Bucky’s trying to stay focused. But he’s had a good day, _damn__ it_, he deserves to reward himself. His head is swimming in vodquila and honestly bless whoever decided to come up with that God awful concoction.

He’s finally finished with his audit of some stupid tech company, where he’s been on site rummaging through a fiscal year’s worth of balance sheets and general ledger accounts. He’s been staring at a computer screen for so long his eyes had started to cross and he was pretty sure he was developing carpal tunnel. But he’s done, he’s finished and he honestly never thought this day would come. The cherry on top of the fucking cake is that he has a bit of a break before it’s on to the next stuffy firm, working long days and sleeping short nights. So fuck yeah, he’s gonna enjoy himself tonight.

He’s in a good mood, a _great_ one actually, so much so, he even agrees to come along with a few of his coworkers who suggest a night out on the town. By the third bar, he’s loose and pliant, feeling good about life for the first time in what feels like a long time. There’s a voice in the back of his subconscious, telling him not to enjoy it, that things are never good and nice for Bucky for too long and to get ready for shit to hit the fan as it so often does. But Bucky’s drunk and the voice of the stranger leaning into his right side is encouraging him to take another shot and he chooses to focus on that voice instead.

***

In hindsight, Bucky should’ve known that him being this intoxicated can only spell trouble in the end but the end comes sooner than he prepares for.

He’s standing in front of an all too familiar sign and it sobers him up just a bit. Even with the liquor disorienting him and three letters still with no power, almost like they aren’t there at all, Bucky knows he’s standing right at the entrance of ‘Sinsations’, on a Saturday night, no less. He’s completely sober now, fuck.

Jostled by Natasha, he’s walking into the club at the peak of its vivacity; club goers clapping and hollering, hyping the current dancer on the stage up, throwing dollar bills until the stage is covered in them. It’s hedonism at it’s absolute best and everyone here is having _fun_ ; Bucky’s even tempted to join in, cash in a couple of the crisp hundred dollar bills in his Tom Ford wallet for hundreds of singles and make it fucking rain like he’s seen in the rap videos. He’s thirty seconds from doing that before his brain catches on to the last words of the DJ asking, “ _who’s ready for the Falcon?”_

The crowd erupts again and Bucky is both relieved and upset that he misses this brand of rowdiness when he comes on his scheduled bi-weekly Friday visits.

But today’s a different day and to Bucky’s surprise, Sam has on a different costume, red, white and blue this time. He still has his signature wings hanging on his shoulders but this time he has a new prop with him: a shield that matches the colors of his underwear.

_Captain America wishes he looked that good._

Caught in the chaos of the club and the way Sam’s ass is filling out the shorts he’s in, he barely registers Brock in his ear telling him that the club is too crowded and too loud and that the gang is gonna take off and asks if Bucky is ready to go too?

He’s not. How in the hell could he be when The Falcon is leaning back on his hands, rolling his hips, strong thighs and arms holding up the rest of his body, showcasing his abs as he dances? It’s Bucky’s favorite move and he wants nothing more to be under the dancer, feeling that body move on him instead of the floor of the stage. He wants that a lot actually.

Realizing that he’s just been standing with his mouth agape and not actually responding, he tells Brock that he’s gonna grab a drink here ”the beer is probably cheap as fuck”, he reasons, and then Brock is gone, probably trying to see whose pants he can get into tonight.

Bucky knows he probably shouldn’t drink anymore but he can’t help himself. He isn’t as drunk as he was before he stepped into the bar and he misses the buzz a little. How relaxed he felt, how joyful the alcohol made him. How it made him feel like he was flying, how he wants nothing more than to fly away with The Falcon, corniness be damned.

He goes to the bar and orders his usual, some no-name hipster beer that’s overpriced and tastes terrible, but it’s the most expensive one on the menu and Bucky just can’t help flexing his wealth sometimes.

***

Making quick work of an old man with a much younger twink attached to his hip with a single glare, he’s in his favorite seat watching his favorite guy when a single thought flutters past his brain, the same one from earlier, synapses firing on all cylinders at how good, no, how fucking amazing the idea itself is.

Strolling to the very large security guard who is a staple at the club, aptly named Hulk, Bucky lets himself fulfill his lone desire, rushing through the words, trying to get them all out before he can change his mind.

“Howmuchforaprivatedance?”, Bucky asks the guard who never quite takes his eyes off of Sam who is still grinding his ass off, almost literally.

The guard looks Bucky up and down, eyes lingering on the metal hand peeking out of the thin henley Bucky’s currently wearing, already considering him too dangerous and about to tell him to fuck off when Sam squats close to his ear, whispers something quickly, winks at Bucky and goes back to dancing, never missing the beat of another 90’s R&B song that his routine is set to.

Hulk grunts, “it’ll be $30 for 10 minutes, the maximum amount of time is 15 minutes and that’s $50. You’ll have to prepay now.”

Bucky swallows thickly, fishes for his wallet and pulls out a crisp hundred dollar bill, places it in Hulk’s hand and tells him to keep the change.

Hulk tells him to go fuck himself, means it actually.

But then he’s off, guiding Bucky into a different section of the club, guarded and closed off by thick, velvet ropes. Hulk pulls a red key from his pocket and opens the second door on the left, lets Bucky in and proceeds to go over some ground rules.

_No touching unless the dancer gives you absolute consent to do so._

_ No pictures or videos. _

”Just don’t be a fucking weirdo and you’ll be fine”, he finishes, exasperated. Almost like he doesn’t get paid enough to lecture grown men on how not to be pervy.

Bucky’s hardly paying attention; he’s an absolute gentleman, has had men and women both tell him that, he knows this shouldn’t be a problem. So he sits back on the loveseat and waits for Sam’s fine ass to come through the door and show him personally some of those moves he has down pact.

***

Bucky’s been checking his watch constantly, seemingly every five minutes, and it’s at this point he assumes he’s just been conned out of a hundred dollars and thirty minutes of his time when the door opens and Sam walks in. He’s wearing a different costume, another pair of booty shorts but this time with a matching vest and Bucky’s lost for words, feels his mouth go dry instantly.

If seeing Sam on stage is enough to make Bucky’s heart race, seeing him face to face is enough to send his heart into palpitations. As close as his seat is to the stage, Bucky is shocked to see so many details he’s previously missed on the man of his dreams. Like the small stud in the right side of Sam’s nose or the tattoo in a foreign language on Sam’s collarbone. Bucky blinks slowly, engraving each new detail into his memory, committing them so he never forgets the man in front of him.

Sam chuckles to himself like he knows the effect he has on Bucky. Like he knows of all of the nights his name has been on Bucky’s tongue as his orgasm rips through him. Like he knows of all the times he runs across Bucky’s mind during the day. He saunters over to where Bucky is still upright on the loveseat —Bucky’s desire to leave quickly replaced with the desire to touch Sam and let Sam touch him back— and settles himself on the dark-haired man’s legs.

He’s looking up at Bucky through those long lashes, brown eyes matching blue ones, his lips curved up in a mischievous smirk. Bucky wants to touch his finger to the corner of Sam’s mouth where his lip is upturned, wants to see that smile first thing in the morning, throughout the day and as they say “love you, goodnight’s”. Bucky also wants to come on Sam’s face, paint that beautiful, brown skin with streaks of white, wants Sam to say “thank you” when Bucky’s scoops it off of his face and pushes it into his mouth to swallow.

Duality.

“I’ve seen you around so much, I was wondering when we would finally come face to face”, Sam says.

He’s still smirking like there’s an inside joke only he and himself are in on. Maybe he’s aware of how badly Bucky wants him, wants to be with him, how Bucky is just a man made entirely of _wants_ that he doesn’t let himself dwell on, too afraid that everything he wants will end up just as broken as he is.

“You’re too expensive for me doll”, Bucky chuckles. “Your time does not come cheaply”.

Sam laughs at that, and Bucky can get off on that sound alone. Knows it’s gonna haunt his dreams, his fantasies and he welcomes it, welcomes living a life where he knows what Sam’s laugh sounds like and that he was the one to pull it out of him.

Sam, still on Bucky’s lap, trails his eyes down from Bucky’s face to his shoes and Bucky somehow feels like he’s the submissive in this situation. Sam’s glance unraveling him instantly just like the first time they ever made eye contact.

Sam pushes himself up, explains the rules again and lets Bucky know he wants him to break every single one of them. Let’s Bucky know that his Friday visits are sometimes the only thing Sam looks forward to. Let’s Bucky know he sees him, has seen him since that first night, and that he’s addicted to the weight of Bucky’s eyes on him and only him, making the world background characters. In a moment of total honesty, let’s Bucky know that he appreciates the tips, the stacks of dollar bills still packaged and wrapped in plastic that Bucky sends to him. He appreciates how he doesn’t have to get down and pick up sticky bills off a disgusting floor, how Bucky helps him to maintain some sense of dignity in a job he hates but has to do because college isn’t gonna pay for its’ fucking self. How his rates are much higher than what Hulk had told him but Bucky’s worth the exception, always has been.

Bucky’s lips are on Sam’s before his brain can register that this might not have been a smart idea but Bucky’s too lovedrunk to care. He’s been inexplicably tied to Sam since he first met him and hearing Sam say those words does something to him.

He wants Sam to repeat that Bucky means something to him, that this isn’t as one-sided as Bucky feels. Wants to hear it first thing in the morning as they lay tangled in each other’s arms or when they’re in the kitchen, one setting the table as the other one cooks. Wants Sam to repeat what Bucky means to him while Sam is plastered to his back with his dick dragging across Bucky’s prostate, only stopping to bite and lick at the shell of his ear.

Again, duality.

What Bucky really wants is a dance. He wants to hear Sam, without the dancer even saying a word. He wants Sam’s body to talk to him.

_ Want, want, want \--_ all Bucky seems to do these days is fucking _want_. And for the first time in his life, Bucky chooses to succumb to his wants, to the desires he’s always been told (always tells himself) to suppress. For the first time, Bucky chooses to just be in the present moment, not concerning himself about future implications of his actions. Bucky wills himself to just enjoy what’s happening now, enjoy the look and feel of the gorgeous man in front of him.

So he leans back on the furniture, widens his legs and with arousal absolutely dripping from his voice tells Sam to “get on with it, let me see a show.”

Sam swallows harshly. This is no time for the dancer to be hesitant to perform but this isn’t just any guy. This is “Mr. Cool, Calm & Collected”, here. The same guy who is singlehandedly putting Sam through college and who Sam has the biggest crush on.

Fuck.

Choosing not to focus on his racing thoughts, Sam goes to the music panel to the left of the room, queues up one of his favorite songs, ‘Love Scene’ by Janet Jackson, and lets the music take control of him. He sways his hip in the tune of the music, Janet cooing in the background, and he throws one muscled leg over Bucky’s waist, rolling his hips down until his ass meets Bucky’s lap.

Bucky leans back, arms going opposite directions on the back of the couch, making himself look bigger and it’s a sight that sends blood rushing down to Sam’s dick immediately. But he has a job to do and Sam’s a professional damn it. He’s not gonna let those gorgeous blue eyes and those pouty lips throw him off his game.

He still languidly rolling his hips into Bucky’s lap, but as the music in the background starts to swell into a crescendo, he moves his hips higher and faster, adding more pressure every time he’s seated in the man’s lap. From the look on Bucky’s face and the unmistakable feeling of a hard dick beneath him, Sam knows his mystery man is definitely enjoying the show. But Sam wants more, wants to give more, but first, the clothes need to come off. The vest is the item to go and Sam flexes each time he removes an arm from the sleeve, stretches out a little so Bucky can get a good view of his abs and the little trail of hair that leads down to Sam’s own hardening dick.

He gracefully stands and turns around, letting Bucky take in the sight of the Round Brown, firm and plush. Guides Bucky’s hands to his ass, silently instructing him to grab his cheeks with his hands. Bucky gets the hint immediately, moaning as he reaches out to grab and then smack one of the ample globes. The surprise of the blow coupled with the heat of the smack as well as the cold metal massaging the area, makes Sam moan out loud, professionalism be damned. He looks back over his shoulder, squats down and tells Bucky to do it again and again and again -

And he’s so aroused, he thinks he might be able to come without even getting a hand around himself. The pleasure of the stranger alternating between rough hits and soft kneads is making Sam’s head swim and he wants nothing more than this guy to absolutely wreck him.

It’s by far the sexiest shit he’s ever been apart of, tells the stranger that too, stomach doing backflips as Bucky laughs behind him, telling him it can only get sexier from here.

Sam wants to take him up on that offer, wants to see if this guy will put him on his knees, keep him there with a strong hand on the back of his neck. Wonders if this guy will fuck his face until he’s hoarse the next day, or if he’ll be open to spitroasting him with his dick and Sam’s favorite dildo in his nightstand.

Sam is full of wonders but all he wants to do is dance, wants to clear his head before he gets too deep into this wanton fantasy and lose himself completely.

Sam breaks out of Bucky’s hold on him and forces him back on the couch, hands and legs bracketing Bucky in. Bucky doesn’t care in the slightest, not when his ‘Man Crush Any Day of The Week’ is using his forearms to lift himself up and drop himself down into Bucky’s lap, grinding his barely covered crotch into Bucky’s denim-covered one.

Bucky wants to touch Sam, touch him everywhere, leave his fingerprints down Sam’s body, wants it to communicate that Sam is a taken man. In a perfect world, Bucky could do that, could leave love bites and hickeys all over Sam, let him walk around shirtless and bruised up, silently telling suitors to back up. But this isn’t a perfect world and Bucky has to settle for pinching and biting Sam’s nipples, slapping his ass when he groans too loudly.

But Sam, oh Sam. Sam is whispering filthy pleasantries in Bucky’s ear as he rides him through his jeans, asking Bucky if he can suck his dick, asking if it tastes as good as Bucky looks, moans that he just _knows_ it tastes fantastic. He’s practically begging for it and it’s so sweet that Bucky can’t help but to oblige.

Bucky’s only been in that tight, wet heat for about three minutes, or three hours who knows, when the telltale sign of his orgasm starts to show its face. When he comes, it’s (again) with Sam’s name on his lips and Sam’s actual lips pressed tightly around the base of his dick. The visual is too much and he curls in on himself, oversensitive. He’s surprised at his own impulsivity but apparently, he’s a different man in Sam’s presence.

He’s content to just lay back and let the drowsiness overtake him when he hears a soft moan below him. What he sees when he opens his eyes, is enough for his dick to twitch back to life, fattening back up in record time. Sam is still on his knees, face and neck covered in saliva, shining under the fluorescent lighting of the room. His eyes are closed, head tipped back as he works his fist over his dick repeatedly. And damn, Bucky had no idea Sam was hiding that from him. Sam’s dick might be the prettiest one Bucky’s ever seen in his life. Bucky tells him so.

“You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking of you standing over me, giving me orders”, Sam blurts out. His impending orgasm rendering him more honest than he would like to be, but he’s too far gone to care now.

“You gonna come for me baby, gonna show me what you look like when you think about me?”, Bucky asks, reaching down to pinch and pull the dancer’s nipples. Sam’s hand is working overtime now, moaning out a broken “yes” at Bucky’s dirty talk.

It takes him four strokes and one command from Bucky, “come right now”, for Sam to spill all over himself and Bucky as well.

Bucky’s eyes go big but other than that, shrugs off the mess and starts to readjust his pants.

Sam’s feeling a little off-put, assumes the handsome stranger would want to talk some, get to know each other and not just rush out after a backroom blowjob. Nonetheless, he gets dressed too, shame creeping up his backside. He’s just about to say fuck it and change in his actual dressing room when the stranger pulls him against his chest and kisses him deeply.

Bucky can taste himself in Sam’s mouth and his dick definitely likes the idea of that because it’s now almost fully erect.

“That was amazing”, Bucky praises.

He’s never usually this brash but it’s worth it to see a hint of blush make its way through Sam, settling on his face right on those gorgeous cheekbones.

Sam mutters a “thank you”, and with a newfound confidence gained in his post-orgasmic haze, asks the stranger for his number. With his cell phone in his dressing room, Sam settles for giving his number to the dark-haired guy, a smile growing as the stranger saves him as ‘sexiest guy in the world’.

There’s a knock at the door, sharp and loud, pulling them out of the comfortable silence that surrounds them.

“I guess I should get going then”, the stranger says. Sam agrees and before he can chicken out, asks the sexy guy he sees bi-weekly, who makes him feel like an actual person, who Sam might just be in love with, what’s his name.

“Bucky”.

Sam wouldn’t mind screaming that name all night long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew.
> 
> as the first fic i've ever written in my life, this holds a special place in my heart.
> 
> now i can focus on the million other au's in my queue (Sambucky Prom!au is next!)
> 
> come & talk to me on tumblr: capmackie


End file.
